16For Attenia. I wish you'd stayed around long enough to see this story finished 3 You so badly wanted to read the whole thing. Thank you for always believing in me and my writing. I'd like to think that wherever you are, this story will reach you. I hope you've found your peace. Rest softly.
To everyone else, I'm sorry that I've neglected this story. There were a lot of contributing factors that led to something of a hiatus over the last few years, and this document sat around on my Google Drive, mostly completed, for much of that time. Please note that this chapter contains massive warnings for graphic self-harm. Be safe.
Chapter Four: Red and White
And on that day, in the middle of a sunny winter afternoon, Legolas found himself curled up and shaking on his bedroom floor, the door locked tightly behind him and a piece of broken glass pressed to the exposed skin of his wrist.
Aragorn hated snow. He hated the cold flakes that settled all over him, slowly melting into liquid droplets that trickled down his tunic until they soaked him to the skin. The Ranger let out a quiet groan and pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders. He hated how the leather of his saddle was damp beneath his thighs, and he hated how his fingers and toes ached constantly from the cold until at times they grew numb altogether. Ironically, the warmth radiating from his mare did little to improve his situation, serving only to melt the accursed white powder and adding to his misery. Aragorn dropped the reins for a moment to blow into his cupped hands, wishing that he had thought to wear the full-fingered gloves in his saddlebag instead of his current pair that left his fingers exposed for better dexterity. He hated - thunk!
The Ranger's thoughts were abruptly cut short as a clod of snow smacked into the back of his head. His mount shied sideways and the young human nearly lost his seat, only managing at the last minute to snatch up the reins and regain control. Loud, obnoxious laughter pealed out from behind him, and Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath before letting out a roar.
"Elrohir!" He whirled around in the saddle only to catch a mouthful of snow as a second snowball found its mark. The pair of identical elves riding behind him froze before erupting into more of the same merriment as one of them dusted snow from his palms.
"Elladan!" Aragorn glared at his brothers as he shook the offending white substance out of the inside of his hood.
"Oh brother, you should have seen your face! I confess that I, too, meant only to hit you from behind, but your face -" The elf who had spoken rode his horse up to the furious human and tried to wipe the snow from his hair. "Estel, your eyes almost popped from their sockets!" Elladan dissolved into giggles again, before quickly shooting a look at his twin.
"Ro, drop it! Our brother has had enough snow."
"Nay, he looks hungry still!" Elrohir beamed as he bounced the snowball he had been forming from one hand to the other, looking like the picture of innocence.
"Elrohir…" The eldest twin's tone lost some of its mirth and with a sigh, Elrohir let the ball of ice fall from his hands, muttering something under his breath and earning himself an annoyed stomp from the horse beneath him.
"Sorry, Estel. You looked so miserable, and we thought to make you feel better."
"By pelting me with snow?!" Aragorn exclaimed in disbelief, and his glare intensified as it moved from one Noldor twin to the other. "But," he continued, becoming thoughtful for a moment, "If you really wish it, I do know of something that would help."
"What might that be?" Curious, Elrohir rode in closer. Aragorn hummed for a moment, allowing Elladan to focus on scrubbing away the snowy remainders of the elves' crimes, and then lunged for the Noldo, pushing him off his stallion and into a thick snowbank before the elf could react.
"To see you eat snow!" This elicited a crow of delight from Elrohir that died in his throat as the human's attention was turned on him. "Any last words, Ro?"
"Catch me if you can, slow human!" The youngest elf whistled to his mare and the horse leaped forward with Aragorn atop his own mount in hot pursuit. Elladan meanwhile, climbed out of the snowbank and watched as Elrohir misjudged the depth of a nearby snowdrift, a mistake which resulted in Aragorn catching up to him and tackling him from his horse, where the human proceeded to vigorously rub snow into the elf's face and hair while shouting with glee. Elladan smiled as he shook his head at their antics. In a roundabout way, he supposed that they had succeeded in cheering up their human brother after all.
Once the scuffle dissolved with both participants thoroughly covered in snow, Elladan called to his brothers. Aragorn was doubled over with his hands braced against his thighs, his warm breath puffing out into the frigid air in fast pants, while Elrohir was trying to find his feet in the deep snow.
"Estel, Ro! Come - the daylight fades and we must seek out shelter before nightfall." Slight grumbling drifted to meet the ears of the eldest Noldo but he paid it no mind as he collected up their riderless horses, stopping only to scold Elrohir who, having gotten his legs under him, had been about to push the human down. Elladan waited until they were all three mounted again and then gave his brothers a long look, checking both over. His grey gaze settled on Aragorn, narrowing in concern.
"Estel, you are soaked. As soon as you cool, you will feel the full effect of the cold." The Ranger opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again with a quiet sigh, for already he was beginning to shiver. "We must make haste to dry those clothes in front of a fire."
"Brother, I will ride ahead and find us someplace to camp for the night." Elrohir nudged his grey mare forward. "For after all, our brother's present state is my doing. Not of course, that I regret it." The younger twin glanced over his shoulder to flash his brothers a cheeky grin before urging his mount into a trot.
Aragorn let out his breath in a huff of steam and huddled in his cloak as Elladan, too, set off, and the human's own mount fell into step behind the black stallion. His cloak was thoroughly saturated, with frost rapidly forming over the sodden fabric, and so no matter how close the human pulled it about his shoulders, it made precious little difference to how miserably cold he felt. His teeth began to chatter and he clamped his jaw firmly shut as Elladan turned in the saddle with a frown.
"Estel, are you alright?"
"Fine." Aragorn did his best at a reassuring smile, and thought wantonly of the Hall of Fire at home, now many miles away. At least, he supposed, he and his brothers were currently travelling home from a scouting mission with the Rangers of the North, instead of travelling to such a mission. Now that winter had descended upon the wilds, Aragorn had to be thankful for the small blessings. With the arrival of spring, he would travel northeast over the Misty Mountains to Mirkwood, where he would finally have a chance to visit Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm and his dear friend, after their respective duties had kept them apart for the better part of a year. Until then though, their visit would have to wait as the snow was simply too thick and treacherous. He scrunched up his nose and quickly raised a hand to his face, but it was too late to stifle the sneeze that burst forth from between his fingers, causing Elladan to whip around to face him. Aragorn waved off the Noldo's expression of alarm and blew once more into his hands to warm them.
"I really am alright. I need only to get someplace warm for a while, and this will - achoo - stop." The human groaned in frustration. Think warm thoughts. The pair were approaching a large outcrop of rock, and the Ranger hoped fervently that it would provide the shelter that they sought. Just when the human was beginning to fear that he would surely freeze to his saddle, a whoop from Elrohir signalled that a suitable campsite had been found. Elladan whistled and his stallion broke out into a jog. With renewed hope, Aragorn urged his mare to follow.
They rounded a rocky slab that jutted from the snow and the human saw that Elrohir stood at the mouth of an overhang in the stone. The space inside looked easily large enough for all of them. As they pulled up beside Elrohir, the youngest elf hopped down from the saddle and was soon followed by his twin. By the time Aragorn had forced his numb legs to comply and had landed heavily in the snow, his brothers had deemed the natural cave both safe and unoccupied. Soon, the horses were picketed outside and a fire was crackling away at the dry branches that Elrohir had found blown into the back of the cave by the wind. Aragorn had wasted no time in stripping off his sodden clothing and now sat as close to the fire as he dared, naked but for a dry cloak that Elladan had dug out of a saddlebag (which he strongly suspected was Elrohir's). He shivered as he readjusted the material around his body, willing the clothes spread on the floor nearby to dry faster. If only his spare set wasn't presently covered in orc blood - it would need a wash before he could wear it without it posing a hazard to his own health.
"Think fast, little brother!" Aragorn looked up just in time to be hit in the face by a wad of fabric. Pulling the offending item away and freeing his vision, the human was greeted by a smugly grinning Elrohir. The tunic he held was soon joined by the younger Noldo's spare leggings, but the Ranger was expecting it this time, and caught the garment in his hand. "Put those on. Ada would never forgive us if you caught your death out here."
"You mean that he would never forgive you, dear brother." Aragorn returned the smirk as he tugged on the clothing, taking the peace offering for what it was.
"As if! The blame would surely fall on Elladan - he is the eldest!"
"Do not bring me into this." A chunk of stale bread sailed across the cave and hit Elrohir in the back of the head, causing the younger twin to yelp in surprise and spin around. Elladan faced his brothers with a mock glare, but his mouth twitched upwards. Any protest died on the others' lips as Elladan handed out rations of bread and dried venison, and the three forgot their quarrelling as they began to tuck into their meagre fare amidst the lengthening shadows. Once they had finished, bedrolls were laid out and the fire extinguished as the sons of Elrond bedded down for the night, Aragorn tucked between the twins for warmth, and still wrapped snuggly in Elrohir's cloak. They had many miles to go before they would reach the comfort of home, and their journey would resume at first light.
Legolas walked quickly through the halls. Not so swiftly as to draw attention to himself, but briskly, as though he were late for court. Though of course, he was not - he was bound instead for his chambers, and he prayed that he would make it in time. Glancing behind him, Legolas knew that he daren't risk a run, for the palace was abuzz with elves going about their daily business, and the disturbance would surely be noticed. A young Sindar maiden carrying a laundry basket stopped to smile and bow deeply to him as he passed, and Legolas forced a smile to stretch his own wooden lips, even as sweat beaded on his brow. Surreptitiously, Legolas reached again for his forearm with trembling fingers, and there it was - or rather, wasn't: a complete absence of pain. He dug his fingertips into his arm and yet still, there was nothing but mild discomfort. The sweet pain that had until now been his solace was gone.
As soon as he was alone for a moment, Legolas ducked behind a tapestry and into a hidden passageway where he let some of the facade of collection drop from his features. His mental reserves were fast running out, and his carefully crafted front would soon crumble on its own anyway - for that to happen out in the vast openness of the halls was unthinkable. Legolas exhaled in a long sigh as he allowed his once-royal posture to dissolve. His frame faltered and he had to momentarily steady himself against the wall where he pulled in a few harsh breaths before continuing, worrying at his arm as he did so.
Today had been difficult. Legolas had, as usual, spent the morning in Elenath's chambers, and the Silvan had struggled particularly hard. The swordsman had lain awake for hours, shaking with pain and sickness that even the healers' best efforts had failed to relieve. Elenath could not hold down anything, and even the water that Legolas had coaxed into him had quickly come back up, leaving Legolas helplessly holding the warrior's good hand as he stroked the tangled, sweat-soaked raven locks away from a face that was far too pale. The Silvan seemed to switch between moments of lucidity and delirium, which left him in a constant state of distress as he either rediscovered his blindness or lay still in quiet despair, tears soaking into his pillowcase as he stared sightlessly out of the window, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun on his cheek - a sun that he was not sure that he would ever again see. He would constantly ask those around him what had happened, and when in the midst of bewilderment and pain, Elenath had cried out the names of his fallen comrades, Legolas had felt each one as a knife in his chest. The healers were still intent on keeping the truth from the Silvan, but Legolas could hear the wavering confidence in their voices - they would not be able to protect the young warrior forever, and they knew it. Somewhere, buried deep in his wounded mind, Elenath almost certainly knew what had taken place that day, and it was only a matter of time until he started piecing it together and noticing the holes in the healers' stories, as well as the absent visits of the fallen to his bedside.
And then the seizure had happened. One moment, Elenath had been fully conscious and trying to breathe through an intense wave of pain as he swallowed against the accompanying nausea, and the next, his entire body had stiffened, back arching for several seconds before the Silvan had begun to shake and twitch in what had so far been the worst seizure that Legolas had ever witnessed. It had taken the combined forces of Legolas and Laegon to keep the swordsman from falling from the bed while they did their best to protect his head and arm - which was already healing abnormally slowly due to the elf's head trauma. Elenath could not afford to take any further damage, a risk that was all too real every time he seized. The bout seemed to go on for hours this time, even though Laegon had assured Legolas afterward that it had only been a few minutes, and when at last the Silvan's body had relaxed, the warrior had sunk into an almost welcome unconsciousness, free from suffering. Legolas had been helping Laegon to pull the covers back so that the healer could check Elenath over, when the prince had noticed it - a wetness spreading slowly outwards from beneath his friend's hips. As if the seizure had not already been enough, the Silvan had lost control of his bladder.
Mortified and deeply saddened for his companion, Legolas had been ready to leave, but Laegon had looked like he had needed the help, and so Legolas had stayed, an unwilling witness to the proud warrior's humiliation. Once Elenath had been changed into clean nightclothes and the soiled bedding replaced with fresh white linen, Laegon had all but chased Legolas from the chambers, insisting that the prince needed rest.
Legolas could not reach his chambers fast enough. As soon as he did, he pulled the door shut behind him and turned the key in the lock with clumsy fingers. He was at breaking point, and all he asked for was some privacy while the inevitable happened. What remained of his mask of strength shattered then, as Legolas let out a shuddering sob followed by a keening whimper as his ribs were jarred. Alone in his room and far from the gaze of prying eyes, he no longer needed to use all of his resolve to hold it in place.
Legolas shuffled towards his bed, pausing once he reached it to pull off his boots. A stab of pain sent him to his knees as he stooped though, and with a small cry, Legolas found himself hunched on the cold floor as his injured body gave out. As he struggled to breathe through the agony, tears pricked at his eyes. Before long, they were streaming down his cheeks and soaking into his leggings as he wept brokenly into his knees, letting out soft sounds of pain every so often. How could this be real? None of his kindred had deserved what had happened to them. They were good, kind beings and friends, and he had destroyed everything. It was all his fault. He deserved to hurt; to pay for what he had done.
No longer trying to slow his tears, Legolas rocked his head back against his bedframe and drew up the sleeve of his tunic to expose the unassuming pink scar - all that was left of the wound. No matter how hard he dug his fingers into the fragile new skin, Legolas could not cause more than a light, transient ache. His elven healing ability, usually a blessing, had betrayed him, robbing him of his one comfort. Legolas renewed his efforts, growing more and more panicked with each one. He needed to hurt. The elf gasped in a lungful of air, lightly smacking the back of his head against the bed in frustration. As he did so, his eyes swept over the room, and something caught his attention. From under the dark recesses of his bedside table, something glittered, reflecting pale rays of winter sun. Momentarily distracted, Legolas reached for it. When he pulled back his hand and opened his fingers, the elf saw that he held a single shard of glass approximately the length of his thumb. He recognised it as a piece of his hand mirror that he had dropped that day that he had first awoken in the palace, when his back had spasmed during Laegon's examination of him. Turning the shard over in his hands, Legolas was struck by a revelation. This lowly piece of glass, cast away and forgotten, was his salvation. Heart hammering in his chest, Legolas pressed it to the soft, pale skin of his inner wrist, his hand suddenly shaking and his stomach sick with the conviction of what he was about to do. He simply held it there for a moment, and then, steeling himself, Legolas dragged the sharp edge across his flesh. The skin reddened and swelled, but it wasn't enough, and so he did it again. Harder. Faster. He needed to hurt. This time, Legolas felt a keen, stinging pain, and as he pulled the glass away from his wrist, he saw that a thin, red line had been left in its wake. As he watched, droplets of crimson began to bead up around the shallow cut, and before he knew what he was doing, the elf had drawn the glass over his skin again, savouring the sharp sting that it brought. The pain quieted his mind, and as the bloody beads converged into a lazy trickle, it was as if all of his pain and anguish went with it, leaving his body and running down his forearm until it soaked into his tunic sleeve, blooming like tiny scarlet blossoms in the grey fabric.
Only once a third line had been pressed into his wrist did Legolas set down the shard and survey his handiwork with a sigh of relief. Three neat cuts contrasted sharply with the alabaster of his skin, each one bleeding slow relief down his arm in a tapestry of red and white. Legolas could breathe again, and he did so in deep, slow breaths as he reclined against the bedframe. His mind and body were light and free from pain, and he felt almost giddy with it.
The elf remained that way for a long while, taking asylum as he watched the blood dry, relishing in the gentle stinging of the wounds: a quiet lullaby that kept the chaos of his mind at bay. The afternoon sun had shifted several feet across his chamber floor by the time Legolas hauled himself upright and crossed to his bathchamber, where he washed the blood from his arm and inspected the wounds. The cuts were a short distance from his wrist, each spanning about half the width of his forearm, and stacked below each other in a neat row. The bleeding had long ago stopped, allowing the elf to assess the extent of the damage - they were barely more than scratches, and would need no special treatment. Even so, they were oddly beautiful, Legolas thought as he flexed his wrist, causing a tiny stab of pain to run down his arm. Finally, he could hurt, could bleed as he deserved to - needed to. All it had taken was a small, unassuming shard of glass, and he had found release as he had paid his penance in blood. As he beheld the wounds in wonderment, Legolas noticed the few drops of blood that had stained his sleeve. Nobody could find out what he had done, and so he would need to deal with it, lest his blood spoke of his secrets to others. Legolas tugged off the shirt and filled his basin with water, and then proceeded to scrub the garment until no traces of blood remained. This secret was to remain his alone. The elf left the shirt to dry on a rack normally reserved for fresh towels beside the bathtub. If perchance, someone were to ask about it, he could simply say that he had spilled soup on it and had not wanted to stain the fabric. He doubted that anyone would ask, though. One of the privileges of being a member of the royal house was that his business was seldom questioned.
As Legolas exited the bathchamber, he selected a loose blue tunic from his wardrobe and pulled it on. He was tired now, and his mind was calm. He could breathe easily, as if the weight that had until now been crushing his chest had been lifted. He found himself crossing the room and taking a seat on his bed where he finally managed to remove his boots before lying down and pulling the covers over himself. After a moment though, he moved his left arm up and out of the covers and pushed up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing his wrist. He needed to see them, for they were things of beauty. Stark crimson poetry against a porcelain canvas, the lines held his pain and his shame, safely away from all who would seek to know. Before long, Legolas' eyes grew heavy and eventually slid shut, the elf lulled to sleep by alternating red and white.
When Legolas next woke, the bedroom was dark, only a shaft of moonlight softly illuminating the interior as it broke through the open shutters. It was too dark. Confused, the elf sat up in bed with a wince as his back twinged sharply. It was well past dinnertime, and yet nobody had come to rouse him. Scanning the room, Legolas noticed what appeared to be a slip of parchment on the floor, as though it had been slid under his chamber door. He supposed that it held the answer as to why he had been left to sleep. Legolas started to swing his legs over the side of the bed, and as he placed his weight onto his left hand, a mild stinging pain shot up his arm. The elf froze as the memories flooded him. He remembered struggling back to his quarters after Elenath's seizure. Trying and failing to elicit a response from his scar. Finally finding the shard of broken glass. And then… relief.
With a quick inhale, Legolas pushed up the sleeve of his tunic that had crept down as he'd slept, and there they were, stark against his skin. Three red lines. What had he done? Heart pounding, Legolas raised his right hand and traced them with a finger, feeling the rough scabs against his fingertip and the slight ache as he applied gentle pressure. Logically, he knew that he should be disgusted and even frightened that he had done this to himself, and yet he could not bring himself to hate the marks on his flesh. Far from it, in fact: he realised with an uneasy wave of guilt that they evoked in him a sense of thrill. Nothing about this was normal - no sane being should find sick pleasure in harming himself. But then, Legolas reminded himself, no sane being callously brought about the deaths of his friends and comrades. He was not normal, and he deserved all the suffering wrought upon him; deserved to hurt, to bleed for what he had done.
And yet still, he knew that he should not be doing this. Before he could change his mind, Legolas grabbed the shard of glass from where it rested on his nightstand and hurled it out of the open window, where it sailed into the darkness and out of sight. Committed to Mirkwood, along with his other secrets. Panting slightly, the elf brought a hand to rest on his ribs which were protesting the sudden movement. But it was done now, and he needed to focus on other things. Starting with the parchment on the floor.
Rising from his bed, Legolas retrieved it with some difficulty and unfolded the paper, noticing at once his father's elegant handwriting.
"My dear Legolas," he read. "Laegon has told me of the trying day you have had. I am deeply saddened that you are having to bear such evil times, especially as one so young. I am leaving this note for tonight, as when I stopped at your door to wake you for dinner, I felt such a profound sense of peace from within your chamber that I did not dare rouse you. It is my sincere hope that as you are reading this, you have rested well, and perhaps, have put yesterday's events behind you. Know though, that my door is always open to you should you wish to unburden your heart. With all my love, always,
Your Ada.
PS: Please eat something when you wake. Your body is healing and you need to keep up your strength."
Legolas refolded the note and held it to his chest, suddenly feeling an ache within it that had nothing to do with his abused ribs. Oh, how we wished he could go to his father and tell him everything. Feel his strong arms and warm chest, and the safety that came with them, knowing that everything would be alright. Tears welled up in his eyes at the mental image though, for this time, no matter how hard he may wish it, everything would not be alright. It would never again be alright. For if his secret was to be discovered, he would be disowned and exiled; cast forever from the love of his father and his people. And for what he had done, he deserved no less. But oh, how we wished things were different. Legolas sniffed hard and scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes, hastily stashing the note in a drawer lest he lose control dwelling on it. He would just need to pretend, at least outwardly, that things were alright (Liar!).
Since he was awake, Legolas decided to make himself useful, telling himself that he had not earned the right to wallow in sorrow. He thought back to his father's request that he eat something, and while it was the last thing he deserved, he knew that if he was to keep up appearances, he could not afford to lose too much weight and raise questions. And so, Legolas reluctantly made his way through the dark corridors and to one of the pantries, where he extracted a strawberry pastry from a basket. They had always been his favourite, and yet the sweet treat was ashes in his mouth. Murderer. You do not deserve to eat. Still though, Legolas forced himself to bite, chew, and swallow. Bite, chew, and swallow. Bite. Chew. And …swallow. Going through the motions until he had finished the confection. Nausea sitting in the pit of his stomach, the elf followed with a glass of water and focused on taking deep, slow breaths through his nose until the feeling passed.
And now, to make himself useful. Once he was fairly certain his body was not going to reject the pastry, Legolas headed for Elenath's chambers. He used quiet passageways and avoided the patrol routes of the night watchmen - he was sure he looked an eyesore, and he did not wish to explain himself to anyone.
Legolas was beginning to limp by the time he arrived - a sharp, shooting pain had made itself known from his back all the way down to his left leg. He had done his best to pay it no mind, but if he was honest with himself, he was very glad indeed to be stopping. Doing just that, he listened for a moment before taking a deep breath and trying the door, which swung open easily. Laegon, who had clearly been dozing in an armchair, awoke at the sound and rose quickly, putting a finger to his lips. Elenath must be asleep then, and no longer unconscious. Legolas felt his chest become a little lighter.
"Prince Legolas," the healer whispered upon reaching the younger elf, concern lacing his voice, "The hour is late and your body needs rest." Legolas shook his head and Laegon fell silent, tutting under his breath.
"I have rested long and well, Laegon." That much was true. "Should it not be you who should take proper rest?" He wanted the healer to leave so that he might visit with Elenath alone. "I will stay at his bedside a while, and should the need arise, I know where to find you and Elweth. But first, please tell me of his condition."
Laegon seemed to consider this for a moment before accepting the offer.
"Alright, Prince Legolas. Then it shall be so. Elenath remained unconscious for several hours after his seizure, but he came to himself in the early evening. His consciousness is fragile and he is in a great deal of pain which we have been largely unsuccessful in controlling, but he has managed to hold down water and some broth. There has been no change to his vision." The healer added the last comment in quickly, as though anticipating Legolas to ask about it.
"Thank you, Laegon." Legolas nodded his head grimly and stood aside as the healer exited the chambers and left in the direction of his own quarters. He watched Laegon walk wearily down the hallway for a moment before slipping inside and closing the door behind him.
Elenath did not stir as Legolas approached his bedside, but the prince of Mirkwood noticed that the Silvan's breathing was rapid, lines of pain etched into the warrior's face. It was true then, what Laegon had said about the pain. Not that he had expected the healer to lie, of course, but a small part of him had hoped that it would not be as severe as Laegon had made it seem - foolish though that may be. But of course, as always, the healer had been right. His heart went out to his suffering friend, but he stayed his impulse to reach out and touch him, fearful of waking the Silvan. For what must have been the umpteenth time of late, Legolas was helpless to provide aid or comfort. The elf sank down into the armchair that Laegon had occupied before, and prepared to keep watch over his friend. Look what at you have done to him. And you yet live. Coward. Murderer. Legolas let out a strained sigh. He brought his fingers up to his sleeve and traced the cuts on his arm through the fabric, remembering the calm he had felt as the skin had split and blood had slowly bloomed from the wounds. It was going to be a long vigil.
It had been maybe an hour when Elenath stirred and let out a whimper, and this time, Legolas could not help but reach out and place a hand lightly upon the Silvan's brow, which was slick with sweat but cool.
"Las?" The warrior's voice was husky with sleep, but his eyes blinked open. "Is that you?"
"Yes." Legolas gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his friend's face with his finger and thumb. "Do you have need of anything?"
"Water, please." Legolas nodded and then mentally chastised himself, for of course, the Silvan could not see the gesture.
"Of course, my friend." There was a pitcher on the nightstand and a glass beside it, and Legolas carefully poured some water, then helped the Silvan to lift his head. This proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated, as they both struggled to work around the excessive level of pain that plagued the young warrior. The seizure had not been kind to him. Once Elenath had his breathing somewhat under control again, Legolas guided the glass to his lips and the Silvan took a few grateful swallows of water. As Legolas was helping to settle him against the pillow though, Elenath went even paler than before.
"Las, sick!" Legolas quickly scanned his surroundings and managed just in time to thrust a nearby bowl under the Silvan's chin and try to roll him onto his side before the raven-haired elf was retching up the contents of his stomach, panting and crying out in between waves of what were quickly becoming dry heaves. Legolas felt panic well up within him, but he forcibly exhaled, knowing that he needed to be strong for his friend. He continued rubbing the other elf's back with one hand, while with the other, he did his best to provide support.
Once the retching seemed to have stopped, leaving Elenath gasping for breath and tears streaming from his eyes, Legolas gave his uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"Nath, are you finished?" he asked softly. Elenath groaned and pulled in a shaky breath, but made an affirmative sound. "Do you think you can manage another sip of water? Just a little." Legolas was no healer, but he knew the importance of ensuring that Elenath remained hydrated, and the Silvan had just lost more than he had taken in. Elenath grimaced and swallowed hard though.
"Eru, no." Legolas allowed him a few moments while he set the bowl as far as he could reach from them without letting go of his friend, to be dealt with later.
"Just one sip, please? Even if just to rid your mouth of the taste." At this, Elenath gave a sigh, but allowed Legolas to tip a small amount of water into his mouth. He forced himself to swallow, and Legolas felt the Silvan stiffen against him as the warrior fought back the urge to gag. Once he relaxed, Legolas helped him to lie back down. "I am deeply sorry that things are so hard for you, 'Nath." He tried to keep his voice from breaking, and hoped that he succeeded. "You don't deserve this. I wish that there was something - anything - that I could do to help."
"Las, no." Elenath's left hand wormed its way out from under the blankets, groping the air until it found Legolas' hip, and squeezed. "None of this is your fault, and my pain is not yours to fix."
Legolas had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to quell his urge to protest, for to do so would be to tell Elenath the truth. And all consequences of this for him aside, the truth could very well kill the Silvan in his current state. Legolas eased himself back down into the chair and Elenath's hand on his hip crept up until it half-found and was half-given the prince's hand. Legolas interlocked their fingers and rubbed his thumb across Elenath's knuckles. The warrior's hand was so cold.
"This will pass, Las. It has to." Elenath let out his breath in a quiet sigh as he squeezed Legolas' fingers. His grip was gentle, and Legolas found himself wondering if it was intentional or if the Silvan was simply that weak. The hand tugged lightly, then, and Legolas was confused, until he realised that Elenath meant for him to climb up onto the bed.
"Just… Stay with me a while. Please?"
"But what if I hurt you?" Legolas baulked, unsure what to do.
"I am already hurting, Legolas," Elenath said sadly, but he didn't let go of Legolas' hand. "And I am weary of lying here alone."
His heart constricting, Legolas started to pull himself up onto the bed, but froze and let out a soft grunt as his back objected painfully. Immediately, he bit back a curse, not wanting to worry Elenath.
"Las?" Too late, he realised.
"Worry not, 'Nath. I am alright."
"But - "
"I am fine. It is you who is injured." Legolas crawled the rest of the way into the bed and cautiously eased himself down, watching Elenath closely for signs of intensified pain. When none came, Legolas settled himself stiffly on the bed, lying as still as he possibly could on top of the covers, hardly daring to breathe lest he provoke a fresh wave of pain in the other. It is all your fault. You have done this to him. You do not deserve to lie at his side. Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the intrusive thoughts, balling his hands into fists and clenching them tightly enough that he could feel his nails digging into his palms. It seemed to help, albeit barely.
Legolas felt fingers brush lightly against his knuckles, and he opened his eyes to find Elenath staring at him. His heart leaped for a second as he dared to hope, only for his anticipation to be dashed to pieces when Elenath spoke.
"Las, I do not need to see you to feel that you are as tense as one of your bowstrings." The Silvan nudged Legolas' fingers open and took the prince's hand in his own. "Relax... It is alright." Legolas let out a long breath, trying to push past the guilt that was crushing his chest. Here he was, the cause of his friend's suffering, and yet Elenath, even in his current state, was still concerned for others over himself. Legolas needed to make it right somehow, but how? He found himself wishing more than anything that he could somehow get the Silvan to his friends in Rivendell. Lord Elrond would know what to do - if anyone could heal Elenath, it would be him. But alas, the snow over the pass was too thick at this time of year, and even if it wasn't, there was no way that the injured elf would survive the journey. And so Legolas lay by Elenath's side, stroking his fingers over the Silvan's hand while silent tears coursed down his cheeks. The palace was filled with elves, and yet they were so utterly alone. Eventually, his eyes slid closed and he drifted into a restless sleep beside his friend.
When Legolas awoke, it took him a moment to remember where he was, and longer still to work out what had woken him. A quick check on his friend revealed Elenath to be sleeping deeply and calmly, and Legolas slid quietly off the bed. There were hushed voices outside the door, and he wondered what was being said that they hadn't tried to enter the room.
As Legolas padded up to the door, the voices became clearer. They were those of Laegon and Elweth. At first, it sounded like the healers were having a routine discussion about Elenath's treatment. Until Laegon said the words that nearly stopped Legolas' heart, sending it plummeting into his feet instead.
"Elweth, you know as well as I do that we have to be prepared for the very real possibility that his sight may never return. He has sustained more damage than I had initially supposed, and I fear that he has passed beyond our help. His injuries are slowly killing him, Elweth." Legolas took a halting, reflexive step backwards as if the words had physically slammed into him. They may as well have. This could not be happening. For Laegon to not be able to make someone whole was inconceivable. The elder elf was the most renowned healer in the Woodland Realm, and few in Middle Earth, if any, could surpass his skill. Except for… Legolas' heart shot out of his feet then to sit in his throat, pounding fiercely. Lord Elrond. Elenath needed Lord Elrond. The snow over Caradhras be damned, for there was no longer time. He needed to think. Leaning against the wall so that he didn't fall on suddenly mutinous legs, a plan began to form in the young elf's mind. It was dangerous, and Laegon would no doubt be frustrated with him, but he feared not the ire of the healer. For if this plan worked, it would be worth any and all consequences.
And so, Legolas left his position by the door and went to sit at Elenath's desk. He opted not to light a lantern for fear of alerting the healers to his activities should the glow spill from out under the door. Instead, Legolas relied on the sight of the Eldar as he gathered his supplies and began to write.
Author's Note: Please, if you're struggling with your mental health and you're having thoughts of hurting yourself, reach out. I've been there and I can tell you that it is 100% not worth it. You ARE enough and you ARE worth fighting for.